Chasing Stars
by HelenMG
Summary: AU: He's a madman with a blue box and a broken eggbeater, he calls himself the Doctor, and all he's ever wanted to do is see the stars. "All of time and space." The Doctor smiles, then pauses for awhile before adding, "As long as it's right here and right now."


A/N: So I'm rather new to this fanfiction business (seriously, I signed up days ago). I hope you enjoy this!

**Chasing Stars**

The first time she sees him, he's running like mad, waving some type of metal contraption in front of him. She sees people in the street turn to stare at his back, and a few people angrily yelp as he clumsily runs into them.

He looks completely abnormal—sticks out like a sore thumb. His hair flops with every leap and gallop he takes, and he's wearing a tweed jacket with a tail that almost reaches his knees, pants that may be a little too short, and a bowtie (decidedly not cool). And that _chin_—It's monstrous.

But Clara's never been one to walk away. Instead, she begins running after him, apologizing to the people he upsets, frantically assuring everyone that everything is top-notch, all right, perfectly normal (though it isn't, most definitely not).

She follows him until he stops at a blue box. He ineptly whirls around, facing her, and there's something in his eyes, for a moment, that she can't quite place. Like the sea, dark and violent during a storm. Initially, Clara thinks that she probably should be scared, but she isn't.

"Who are you?" he asks, green eyes filled with confusion, and she can't help but smile back at this mad man with a box.

"I'm not important." She assures him.

He quirks an eyebrow at her. "In all my years, I've never met someone who wasn't important."

"Well, who are you?" Clara asks. "Man like you must have a name."

"I'm the Doctor." he answers, standing straighter and with some degree of pride.

"Doctor who?" Clara asks, grin lighting her face.

"Just the Doctor." The man replies. "But I've answered your question—so who are you?"

And though he's hardly given her a satisfactory answer, Clara feels like she needs to tell him her name, otherwise it's liable to burst from her. "Clara."

"Nice name, Clara." He says, looking into the distance before looking back at her. "You should definitely keep it."

He begins to turn around, but Clara's not ready for him to leave her—not yet. Grabbing his wrist, she asks him "What are you doing, Doctor?"

He smiles, and she knows that her life is about to change forever. "I'm about to go on a trip." he says.

"Where to?" Clara asks.

"Anywhere." Is his simple reply. "All of time and space—I'm going everywhere and anywhere." He opens his little blue box, and Clara gasps in surprise.

"Why it's smaller… on the inside." She breathes. Because it is—the Doctor has to crawl to get inside, and once he is, he cannot sit straight without bumping his head against the flimsy ceiling.

He looks absolutely ridiculous, his garb matched with his actions (and the chin certainly doesn't help). Clara finds herself working very hard at diverting curious glances from the occasional passer-by. _Nothing to see here, really._

"Well, come on." He looks up at her expectantly, gesturing to the sliver of space next to him.

"Where are we going?" She asks, crawling into the box next to him while holding down her skirt.

"All of time and space." The Doctor smiles, then pauses for awhile before adding, "As long as it's right here and right now."

Clara can't help laughing, because this man is utterly barmy and this whole scenario is out of a storybook.

"How about right here, three seconds from now." She grins, as he presses a little cardboard button next to him. He crawls out of the box, and extends a hand to her to pull her up.

"Well, I'm afraid I've messed up the timing. It's been closer to ten seconds than three." He frowns for a moment. "It's a kink I still haven't managed to work out." He adds apologetically.

"It's fine." She replies. "But it's getting late, and I think it's time for me to get you home."

He looks disappointed for a moment, then he grins and holds her hand tightly, leading her down the street. They wind up in front of a building with perfectly mown grass and square hedges. Clara notices a sign in the middle of the lawn; it's a mental home.

Everything is starting to make more sense to Clara—this mad man and all his quirks—and she begins to lead the Doctor to the door. He seems to be digging his heels into the ground. Clara can't blame him; she'd do the same. But he needs to go back, and so she takes him.

They walk through the door, and a matronly woman rushes towards them, taking the Doctor's elbow and scolding him. "There you are John! What trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?" She then turns to Clara. "Thank you, Miss. He keeps running away—he's not dangerous, mind you, but it's good to have him safe."

"It's no problem." Clara assures her, just as the woman reaches into the Doctor's pocket and pulls out the metal contraption he had been waving earlier.

"And what's this?" the woman exclaims, turning back to the Doctor. "Have you taken apart the eggbeater _again?_

The Doctor does a little pout, sending Clara into a fit of giggles.

A girl walks up to the three of them. "Thank goodness you're here, Elsie." The matronly woman says. "Take Mr. Smith back to his room, please. And watch him better this time."

Elsie nods at the woman's request, taking the Doctor away. He waves at Clara, and Clara smiles in return. "Catch you around, chin boy." She says.

"Oi! What's wrong with my chin?" he calls over his shoulder."

"Careful!" She calls back. "You'll poke Elsie's eye out!"

The Doctor sticks his tongue out at her like a petulant schoolboy, causing Clara to chuckle.

The woman clears her throat, and Clara turns to her expectantly. "I'm sorry if he was any trouble, Miss." She says. "He keeps running away—but he always comes back."

"Oh, he was no trouble at all." Clara assures her. And because she's sure this lady enjoys chatting, she smiles kindly and says, "I actually have a few questions."

The woman beams, and leads Clara to a room down the hall.

::

Clara finds out that his name is John Smith, and he was committed to the home a mere three months earlier—exactly one month after the football stadium explosion that had sent the entire country into paralyzing fear.

He had lost the three people that had meant anything to him: his Ponds, he called them. The three people who loved him, even if his head was always filled with the stars, and his heart always just a little bit farther away than the earth. His friends had affectionately called him the Doctor.

Amy, Rory and River, all killed by a bomb. Killed in a light that reminded him vaguely of the sun: fiery and brilliant and painful to look at. And he hadn't said goodbye; he hadn't known they were going to be ripped from him. But then, he'd never liked endings.

He couldn't take care of himself afterwards; he couldn't bear to live in a world without them, so he'd allowed the stars to take permanent residence in his head and let his heart drift even further away.

In a few fancy words, Clara understands that John Smith created an alternate reality for himself, and was quite content to stay there. In his mind, he was the Doctor; all of time and space at his fingertips, galaxies to save, people to meet. Traveling in his blue box: next stop everywhere.

::

It's two weeks before she sees him again, and he's mad as ever. He's wearing a brown jacket and his hair's an absolute mess, but he's still got that bowtie so Clara can't help but smile.

"Clara Oswin Oswald." He says when she opens the door. She has no idea where he got the Oswin from, but she's not one to argue and she kind of likes it. "It's me, the Doctor!"

She pretends she doesn't know who he is, though she couldn't possibly forget him. "Doctor who?" she asks, before grinning.

"Say that again, please." He entreats her, hands folded, eyes sparkling.

And so, she says it again, just to humor him. Because his eyes are full of childish glee, and she'd rather die than let any of that light extinguish.

"I've been looking for you, Clara Oswald." The Doctor says. "I've been searching entire galaxies, traversing through time, just to see you again."

"And how does it feel to have found me?" Clara coyly asks.

"Perfect." Is his simple reply.

"Well then," Clara turns around and begins walking inside. "This calls for a celebration." She peers over at the Doctor, who is still standing at the doorway, unsure if he should step over the threshold. "Come on then!" Clara calls.

She leads him into her kitchen, sitting him down at the counter so she can see him as she works. "I was making a soufflé before you got here." she explains, gesturing to the bowl and whisk before her.

"Do you do that often?" the Doctor asks, toying with his bowtie.

"Only on special occasions." is her reply, as she begins to mix the ingredients.

"And what's so special about this one?" the Doctor is still fiddling with his bowtie, as if he's nervous and doesn't know what else to do.

"My chin boy's come to rescue me and show me the stars."

The Doctor is grinning, so Clara smiles too. Because she swears the light of his smile could put the very sun into shadow.

His hands are still now, and she hopes this means he's comfortable—that he feels like he's home. Clara proceeds to mix again, explaining that the soufflé isn't the soufflé—the soufflé is the recipe. She then proceeds to tap the Doctor's nose with her whisk, leaving behind some batter.

"Hey!" the Doctor is scandalized. "Is that any way to treat a guest?"

"My home, my rules Mister!" With a crooked grin and a flourished whisk, Clara sprays the Doctor with more batter, this time leaving some on his jacket.

She laughs at the silly expression on his face, until she feels soufflé on her arm. Widening her eyes in shock, she takes more batter into her hands and throws it at the Doctor.

The two battle each other until there is no batter left. Clara can't make herself feel disappointed over the loss of her soufflé—she was always rubbish at baking them, anyway.

::

After cleaning up, Clara takes the Doctor back to the home, watching as the matronly woman scolds him and as Elsie takes him back to his room.

"Why don't I visit you tomorrow?" Clara calls after the Doctor's retreating back.

"I don't know, isn't it dangerous?" he looks at her over his shoulder.

Grinning slyly, she answers, "That's what I'm counting on."

And she does visit him; she comes the next day, and the next, and the next. She visits him everyday, listening to him talk about eleven different lives and an infinite universe full of limitless possibilities.

::

One day, she brings her book: _101 Places to See_. He opens it and pulls out a leaf, red as the dawn.

"Clara, there's been a mistake." he says. "Your book has a leaf in it."

"It's not a leaf." Clara replies. "It's page one.

And she tells him its story—how her parents met, how the leaf represents everything that was and everything that can never be.

The Doctor holds the leaf in front of him delicately, as if it were fragile porcelain and could break with the puff of a breath. "You blew into this world on a leaf." he says, eyes full of awe, voice soft.

Then, he licks the leaf, face morphing into a grimace.

Clara feels as though she should frown—after all, that is the average response. But the Doctor is anything but ordinary, and normal is overrated, so she laughs instead.

::

For a long time, Clara doesn't know where she's going. She's falling, and she doesn't know where she is. But then the Doctor comes into her life, and it's the best thing ever; she finally knows what her purpose is.

Somewhere along the way, amid the visits and the giggles and the bowties, Clara becomes a nurse.

Days after she graduates, she takes over for poor, tired, frantic Elsie. Clara becomes the Doctor's nurse—his companion.

And together they run, chasing stars.

::

One year after her nursing career begins, the Doctor's eyes look different. They're still just as bright, but they aren't filled with imaginary stars. They're filled with something else, and Clara knows he's finally tethered to reality.

"Clara, _my _Clara." he whispers, grasping her hands tight. "You were always there. My impossible girl."

Clara is surprised, but she really shouldn't be. After all, he's the Doctor—always astonishing, never predictable. And looking into his eyes, she's never seen anything more beautiful; because what are imaginary stars in comparison to _real_ ones?

::

Months later, when the Doctor goes back to studying the stars and Clara starts nursing in the children's clinic, they sit together on a park bench.

"So, you fell in love with me despite the mad blue box." he says, voice laced with surprise, grin lighting his eyes.

"I fell in love with you _because _of the box." she replies.

"So maybe you're the mad one." the Doctor jokes, chortling to himself.

Everything is perfect, perfect in every way. But for some reason, Clara begins to cry; she's not sure why, but there are tears falling from her eyes.

Quickly, the Doctor kneels in front of her, brushing the tears away with his thumbs, stroking her hair back and kissing her forehead.

"Clara, what's wrong?" his voice is worried and he continues to stroke her hair.

"I'm afraid." Clara whispers. "I'm afraid you'll float away on a cloud and leave me behind."

"There's no more cloud, Clara." the Doctor assures her. "You came and brought the rain." He shifts his position so he's only on one knee, and pulls a little blue box out of his pocket. "I was going to wait and do something more grandiose," he explains almost apologetically. "But this feels more right."

He opens the box, revealing a ring. "Clara Oswald, you have so many doubts and fears, and I want to rescue you. You've saved me so many times—just this once, let me save you. Please, will you marry me?"

And the answer is yes, because she can never say no to him, can't even dream of denying his silly face anything. The box holds a promise—an entire life—so many could be's and will be's. It's then that Clara realizes how special the little blue box is: it's bigger on the inside.

::

They marry in the fall, in front of trees with red leaves that look like page one of her book. The Doctor wears a funny blue bow tie and Clara wears a smile with a blush to match the scenery.

The ceremony is sweet, like the jammy dodgers the Doctor always insists on eating with his tea, and Clara is certain that this is the happiest she's ever been.

Afterwards, they run. They travel the globe from Paris to Timbuktu, but they always take the time to sit, look up, and stare at the stars. Because all the Doctor ever wanted to do was see the stars.

They run until they're too old and they can't anymore. Then, they're aged and grey; sharing stories and smiles over cups of tea. Clara still laughs at everything the Doctor does, and the Doctor is still clumsy, so clumsy.

It's all so funny to Clara, his jerky movements and lack of balance, until one day he falls. White, floppy hair flying, the Doctor falls from atop a stool and bumps his head. When Clara reaches him, he looks up at her with eyes that she hasn't seen in years.

"Not to worry, Oswin!" he says. "I've only knocked my head against the floor—no regeneration needed; I'm here to stay."

Clara goes cold, because she thought she had saved him from this for good. She hadn't thought his sanity was only temporary; she hadn't thought she'd ever see those star-filled eyes again. For a moment, she is bitter—it had rained, but the clouds still returned. Nevertheless, she loves this Doctor just as much as the other, so she can't be sad for too long.

She waits one month before taking him to the home. Clara knows they will let him be that mad man with a box, and she can't bear to take him anywhere else.

She visits him everyday, and one night the nurses let her take him to the roof with his old telescope. They stare at the stars the entire night; Clara listens to the Doctor hum old tunes and tell stories about his adventures with his impossible girl.

In the early morning, while the stars still shine, Clara leads the Doctor back to his room and tucks him into bed. As she turns to leave, he grabs her hand. His eyes look at her—_really_ look at her, and Clara knows this is the end.

"Clara, _my_ Clara." he whispers.

She stays by his side until his eyes close, and his hand turns cold. Brushing his hair back, she kisses his forehead, like he did for her so many times before. When she walks outside, the sun is out. She can't help but notice that without him by her side, it isn't quite as bright.

::

Days later, Clara stands by his grave. She was born to save the Doctor, and with him gone, her story is done. Life's just _stopped_. But she knows she'll be with him soon, because nothing's holding her to the world anymore; already the thread that keeps her grounded is disintegrating, fiber by fiber.

She's come to a slab of stone to say something, but she isn't sure what will do. After all, she'll join her love in the stars very soon, and she'll finally understand all those stories. Soon, it will be the Doctor and his impossible girl, traveling through time and space: next stop everywhere.

Her thoughts are for him; _Don't be lonely, I'll be with you soon._

So, since there are no words that she cannot share with him later, she sticks with something simple. Gripping his gravestone, she whispers the chosen words like a promise:

"Run, you clever boy, and remember me."


End file.
